


O Heartless Man (Your Heart Shall Soon be Mine)

by draeco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draeco/pseuds/draeco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howl's Moving Castle AU -- Draco as Howl and Harry as Sophie (not genderbent)</p><p>Malfoy is flying too close to the sun, and the only thing scarier than falling into the sea is falling in love. A heart's a heavy burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Envision a picturesque meadow. Vibrant flowers bloom in abundant small clusters and the shining grass bends under the waves of the wind. White clouds dot the azure summer sky and the tips of the snowy mountains in the distance. Sheep graze peacefully and the chirping of birds fills the air. It all seems so lovely and cliche, yet there is something amiss. 

The mist shrouding the bases of the mountains grows until it brushes against the flowers in the meadow. There is still a lot of blue sky and sun, but the air becomes colder and the wind blows a little bit harder. A faint clamor sounds. It could be pieces of rusty metal scraping against each other, but it is difficult to tell. As it grows louder, the sheep begin to move away more and more swiftly. The chirping of the birds continues, but it seems to falter. 

And then as suddenly as it started, the creaking stops. The sheep relax and the birds sing loudly again. Whatever was in the mist never showed itself.

 

 

The shrill train whistle blows as the wheels turn and the track rumbles. Puffs of black smoke chug from the train and cloud the view from the window. That does not matter. It will dissipate soon enough and really, the view is the same as it is every other day: a hazy blur of cobblestones and faded bricks of the city. He does not have the time to sit and stare out of the window anyways. 

His name is Harry Potter. He is a young man, but he looks so small and frail that he really seems more like a boy. His shock of black hair is long enough that it falls into his eyes, which are a brilliant green and covered by a pair of round glasses held together by tape. His thin hands are dull from work, meaning anything from cleaning the floors to carrying heavy loads of supplies for his aunt and uncle’s hat shop. He lives with them as they along with their son are his only relatives; his parents perished in a train crash. 

“Boy!” a shrill voice calls up the stairs. That would be his aunt, Petunia Dursley. Harry sighs as he puts down the hat he was working on, wondering what kind of work he’ll be forced to do next. After assigning him so many laborious tasks, calling him by his name would be the least that they could do, but no. 

“BOY!” she calls again, much louder this time. It is better for him to stay silent rather than give a response; if he replies, his aunt would most likely scold him for talking back and “behaving insolently.” 

“Go pick up the shipment of fabrics at the port,” his aunt snaps as soon as Harry is in her line of sight. “There’s several boxes, so it might take you a while. Don’t waste any time.”  
Harry simply nods in response and sighs when she leaves the room with the clicking of her heels. He looks out the window and sees that the sky is filled with heavy gray clouds threatening to release rain at any moment. The umbrella stand is empty. Dudley must have broken an umbrella, or else he heard Aunt Petunia’s order to Harry and stole the umbrella before Harry could take it. He sighs, trying not to think of the scolding he’ll get if he comes back sopping wet, dripping all over the floor.

Well, there’s not much he can do about it. Damned if he goes, damned if he doesn’t. Best to get it on with.

 

Harry makes for the alleys behind the Dursleys’ house along the shortest path to the port. The only problem with going this way is that there aren’t any shop hangings to protect him from the rain. He starts to jog, hoping to stay ahead of the rain. 

“Oy! What’re you running from? Is little Harry scared of something?” 

Harry recognizes the voice as one of Dudley’s bully friends. There are probably several of them in a little gang. Harry doesn’t look back, knowing that he’s faster on foot than they are.

But they aren’t on foot. Harry hears the bicycle wheels whirring behind him getting closer and closer. Raindrops start to fall and Harry’s wet glasses obscure his vision. His legs are burning from running, but he’s still far away from the port and people other than Dudley’s gang. Why are they even out in the rain? Did they know he was coming?

A sudden crash and an abundance of swear words surprises him, and Harry looks back without slowing down. It seems like the gang has crashed into some invisible wall, as they’re all lying on the ground looking angry, the wheels still spinning even though the bicycles have fallen over. 

“Relax, you don’t have to run so hard,” a cool voice slips in his ear. Harry starts, just realizing that there is another man besides him, looking very calm even though he’s moving at the same speed as Harry. “Unfortunately, you’re not the only one being followed. Don’t look behind you.”

The man’s arm is suddenly around Harry’s shoulder and gripping him very tightly. He begins to walk very quickly, boots clicking against the cobblestones, and Harry does not have much choice except to walk with him. This man is not necessarily trustworthy, but he seems to have just stopped Dudley’s gang from proceeding, so he should not be an awful person. Harry takes a good look at the man. Tall, slim, white blond hair falling to his shoulders, a jeweled earring dangling in and out of sight, high-quality clothes that include a billowing diamond-patterned cloak not unlike a cape. Not what an average man dresses like on the streets, and his looks are not average either. High cheekbones, long, thin angles from his nose to his jawline, and gray eyes that seem to sparkle. 

“I know I’m quite handsome, but you don’t have to make your ogling so obvious,” the man chuckles, and Harry feels heat rising to his cheeks. “Now hold on tight and don’t be surprised.” With that, air rushes past Harry’s skin as they shoot upward and Harry tries not to cry out in surprise. 

They’re flying with the city beneath their feet. Whatever it was that was chasing them is no longer visible. Hardly anything is visible except the colorful roofs and intersecting lines of cobblestone streets. The view fascinates Harry. He’d never thought he’d see the city the way a bird might.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it? But you can’t just stand there. Where are you headed?”

Startled, Harry looks into the man’s face, feeling the tight grip he has on his shoulder. “Er, the port.”

“No problem. Just start walking normally, like this.” The man lifts one foot and puts it in front of the other as if walking in the air were perfectly commonplace.  
Harry tries, and after a few steps he finds it just as easy as the man makes it out to be. “Wow!” he can’t help letting out. “This is brilliant!” For some reason he feels compelled to look at the man again, who returns Harry’s grin.

They arrive at the port too soon, but the exhilaration does not leave Harry’s veins as they slowly float to the ground and gently land, the man’s cool hands firmly enclosing Harry’s. No one seems to notice their arrival. It’s still raining, but Harry only just realizes that the two of them have stayed dry the whole time. 

As if sensing Harry’s thoughts, the man says, “Don’t worry. You’ll stay dry until you go inside.”

“Thanks so much,” Harry says, trying not to stutter. “I don’t know how--”

“Again, relax,” the man interrupts him. “It’s no problem.” He blinks so quickly that Harry’s not sure if he imagined it or not, and with a flourish of his cloak he launches himself back into the air and disappears into the clouds. 

 

Harry manages to carry all of the rolls of cloth all the way back to the shop without dropping any of them, which is a miracle considering how distracted he was the whole time. Thoughts of the mysterious man would not leave him. He was obviously a wizard, but which one? Wizards are not common in this area, and Harry had not even managed to learn this man’s name. There was also the bigger question: why had this wizard rescued Harry? He had been very nice, yes, but it seemed like a strange coincidence that he would be in the area near the Dursleys’ house and just feel nice enough to defend a small, unremarkable boy like Harry. No one had ever had any reason to call Harry special or make him feel worthwhile. Harry never thought himself worthless or useless regardless of what the Dursleys told him, but he never thought of himself as someone who particularly deserved attention. He’s just a boy unlucky enough to be orphaned and living with his horrible relatives, forced to work in their horrible hat shop.

He arrives at said hat shop and finally puts the fabric rolls down to unlock the door. The lights are off -- the sun has set and the Dursleys are probably out to dinner. Harry’s duty is to put all the fabric away and finish the remaining orders that are supposed to be picked up the next day. Once inside, he lights the minimum amount of lamps needed to see to sew and locks the door firmly. He sighs and begins to thread a needle. 

He just finishes one hat when he hears the bell over the door of the shop ring. That’s strange; the Dursleys don’t normally come through this entrance to get to the house. He looks up and sees an unfamiliar woman with a black feathered hat even more ridiculous than the ones he makes for the Dursleys. Her face is partially obscured by her hat, but she has a strange aura that draws Harry in even though he does not understand why. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed for the night. We open at 10 tomorrow morning,” he says softly but clearly.

“I have some important business to attend to,” she replies, wrapping her thick fur shawl around her more tightly.

“Again, I’m sorry, but our business is not open right now.” Harry walks to the door and opens it for her. He could have sworn he locked it. “We’ll be happy to serve you tomorrow.”

“Look at this little boy!” the woman shrieks. “Such a tacky look and a tacky personality. It fits in with the shop, I suppose. But really! You dare defy the Witch of the Waste?! Insolence! You shall pay!”

Harry opens his mouth soundlessly. A witch? But before he can think further, the witch has raised her hand and a rush of cold air blasts through him, and he crumples to the ground from the impact.

The witch cackles. “You dared, first to touch Draco and then to defy me. See if you ever dare again.” The bells over the door clatter as she exits as suddenly as she entered.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry opens his eyes a few minutes after the witch has left just to be sure that she does not return. He struggles to stand up; his joints feel stiff and heavy, as if he had just woken up after a day of strenuous exercise. As he stretches his back, he feels his bones cracking more than they usually do. Strange. Harry might not have the healthiest lifestyle, but he has never felt so sore before. 

He walks slowly back to the table where his work is still spread out and begins to clean up. He reaches for the finished hat and stops at the sight of his hand. The skin is spotted with age and creased with wrinkles. He pulls his other hand in front of him and sees that it looks the same, as if he had aged sixty years in sixty seconds.

A look in the mirror tells him that he did indeed grow old. His face sags and oozes weariness. The hair on his head has become gray flecked with white. His shoulders are hunched as if carrying the invisible baggage that comes with living for a long time. The clothes on his body seem to have grown bigger, or maybe it is his body that has shrunken. _But I’m only sixteen,_ Harry thinks. 

“I’m only a boy,” Harry says uncertainly. The voice that comes out of his mouth is even older and feebler than he feels, as if it could break if he tried to speak too loudly. 

Harry cannot stay here, that is for certain. The Dursleys would call him irresponsible and a troublemaker for getting himself cursed by a powerful witch, not to mention now useless because he could not work as fast as he used to and their shop would lose profit. They would kick him out if he didn’t leave first. However, night has already fallen and it would not be a good idea to leave while only the moon is in the sky. Today he’d already encountered two magical people, and who knows what else roams around after dark. 

 

 

He wakes up with a start at the sound of the earliest train releasing an earsplitting whistle. How Dudley could sleep through that every day, Harry didn’t know. Memories of the previous night filled his mind, and he remembered that he had to get going before the Dursleys were up. 

He packs a small bundle with some extra clothes, puts on an old hat that covered some of his face, and heads down to the kitchen to pack a few days’ worth of food. For once, he can take as much as he wants since the Dursleys won’t be able to punish him for doing so. Bread and cheese are the only items he grabs, considering that there is not much time for him to prepare anything else. Travelling light is the best anyways.

After he steps out the door and onto the street, Harry expects someone to see him and catch him in the act of escaping. He braces himself, but there are no shouted questions of _hey old man, what were you doing in the Dursleys’ house_ or _who are you_ or _where are you going_. No one notices him at all; despite the enormous changes Harry had gone through the previous night, the reaction from others is surprisingly the same. 

The streets look the same as they usually do in the early morning light. Harry can hear the distant calls of the seagulls and the vendors at the pier as they begin to set up shop for the day. It feels strange to be leaving the place in which he lived for his whole life. Living with the Dursleys was never pleasant, but the town itself was actually better than decent. A feeling of loss swoops over Harry as he hobbles along the cobblestone streets. He hasn’t had that great of a life, but he’s leaving familiarity behind. It’s exciting, but his palms start to sweat when he thinks about the fact that he has no plans and not much money. But he will survive. Harry has already done it for his whole life.

He reaches the edge of the town and the cobblestones change into a dirt path that cuts through the grassy hills. This is the beginning of the Wastes, rumored to be filled with dangerous creatures and wizards gone mad. To Harry, it looks fairly innocent, but that might just be because he hasn’t actually spent any time in it yet. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have enough money to take a ship, so he has no choice but to go through the Wastes to find the next town. 

The first few hours are bearable, but Harry tires of the same grassy landscape after some time and the sun on the back of his neck starts to make him sweat. He sits on a rock and eats some of the food he packed. Years of not eating well has decreased his appetite over time, and it proves to be practical now. Still, he doesn’t know how big the Wastes are, and he needs to make his food last. There should be some sort of lodging somewhere. Harry can’t be the only one who has tried to travel through here. 

Standing up is somewhat difficult with nothing to use for help, and Harry realizes that he won’t be able to go on for much longer without a walking stick. He looks around and as if someone heard his wish, he spots a long, thick stick poking out of a bush. He walks over and tugs the stick, which seems to be stuck. After a minute of straining himself to pull, the stick is released and Harry painfully falls onto his backside from the effort. To his surprise, the stick rights itself and he sees that it is not just a stick but the support for a scarecrow. Its once handsome black jacket and matching hat are now tattered, and its turnip for a head smiles motionlessly at Harry.

As if Harry weren’t shocked enough already, the scarecrow bounces around by itself in a circle around him. He knows that he shouldn’t be surprised by magic since it’s likely to be present here, but he had not been exposed to it often in the town and had often forgotten about it at times. 

“Hello, Mr. Scarecrow. Actually, can I call you Turnip-head? It’s more unique.” Harry feels strange for speaking to a scarecrow. Could it talk back? 

Turnip-head doesn’t respond; he just stands there smiling, his clothes rippling in the breeze. 

“Well, er, Turnip-head. I don’t know if this will do any good, but is there any chance I could ask you if you know where I could get a good walking stick?”

Turnip-head continues to smile blankly, but after a moment he jumps once, which Harry takes to be an affirmation, and then bounces away up the path out of sight. 

He slowly gets up and starts walking again, since he doesn’t see any point in waiting around for the scarecrow. It may not even have listened to him. Who knows how scarecrows think, especially since there probably aren’t too many magical scarecrows. Has growing older made him think stranger thoughts like these, or is he thinking like this just because the situation calls for it? 

Eventually his brain too is tired and he trudges on in silence apart from the grass swaying in the wind. Harry is wearing an old watch on his wrist, but he doesn’t bother to check it as he walks on. Hours pass; the sun sinks lower in the sky and the air becomes cooler. 

The sky is streaked with various shades of pink and orange and purple from the sun setting when Turnip-head finally returns bouncing happily back to Harry. A handsome walking stick with a bird’s head as a handle is tucked into Turnip-head’s jacket and Harry grabs it when the scarecrow is close enough.

“Thanks! And, er, since you did one thing for me already, would it be too much to find me a place to stay for the night? I don’t fancy sleeping on the ground in this old body.” Harry grins apologetically.

Like before, Turnip-head jumps once and then bounces away. Harry decides to stand there and wait for him; continuing to walk or trying to sit down would be too tiring. 

Time passes too slowly as the sky becomes darker and darker and the speed of the wind increases, making the air colder. Harry is shivering by the time he hears something in the distance. It sounds like metal machinery creaking and air gusting out of pipes, and the air begins to feel ominous. 

A dark shape becomes visible over the top of the nearest hill, and Harry feels a sense of dread as the last rays of the sun cast some light onto the thing. It could only be the thing that he’s always heard whispers and rumors about in the town despite never quite believing them himself. Supposedly a castle, but was that really the proper word for a mishmash of different parts of buildings that didn’t go together? It looked like the creator had taken bits and pieces of houses that he liked and pushed them together without caring that they didn’t fit, creating a massive, messy-looking structure. Not to mention that it seemed to have two eyes and a mouth that opened and closed with every step of its two chicken-like legs. 

While Harry gawks at the thing -- he didn’t really think it could be called anything else -- Turnip-head bounces up to him. His smile, although unlikely to have actually moved, seemed to be broader than before.

“Turnip-head, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but of all places you want me to stay in Malfoy’s Moving Castle?”

Upon his uttering of these words, the “castle” creaks to a halt. The mouth stays open, tongue hanging out, and a door under it is now visible. Turnip-head bounces over to it, clearly gesturing to Harry.

“Turnip-head, have you heard what people have said about Malfoy? That he eats the hearts of young boys?”

Turnip-head only bounces more eagerly at these words. _Hurry up, there’s not much time left,_ he seems to be conveying. 

“Well,” Harry sighs. He’s not really a young boy anymore, so he probably won’t have his heart eaten. Probably. The air is getting more frigid by the minute, and at this rate he’s not going to find any other place to sleep. He’s never had an adventure anyways. The door is right there waiting.

Harry really hopes he won’t regret this. He grips his walking stick, steps forward, and pulls the door open.


	3. Chapter 3

If Harry had not just seen the outside of the place, he would never have guessed from the inside that this was the main entrance to Malfoy’s Moving Castle. A short staircase leads up to the main level, but the darkness makes Harry blindly reach for a handrail before he stumbles up the steps.

It’s true that Harry’s aged eyes cannot see as well as they used to, but he thinks that even people with perfect vision would have trouble seeing the room properly. The only source of light comes from a dying flame in the fireplace. From what he can see, the room is large and dirty. An area that Harry can’t identify towers with items, possibly pots or containers, that probably have not been cleaned for a long time. Bits and pieces of who knows what on the floor crunch under Harry’s feet, and he shudders to think about what they could have been part of. In any case, Harry is tired from a day’s walking and the only item he wants to see is the lone empty chair in front of the fireplace. He finally reaches it and collapses into a sitting position, stretching his limbs and cracking his neck with loud popping noises. It feels so nice to finally have a rest.

“That’s quite a nasty curse that you’ve got put on you, old man.”

Harry’s eyes open reluctantly. In normal circumstances, he might have been surprised and even scared, but it feels like it’s been a long time since anything normal happened to him.

“I must be really tired,” Harry says out loud with a bit of laugh. “The fire has little eyes and a mouth and it’s talking to me.”

“Hello? I’m right here. You’re not asleep yet. Anyways, that curse. It’s not an easy one to break. I expect you won’t be able to talk about it, eh?”

Harry blinks bemusedly. A talking fire, sure, but one that could discern magic too? This wizard Malfoy really knows his stuff.

“Wait. Can you break my curse?”

“Well, life’s not that simple, even for a fire demon like me. But hey, let me tell you a little something. You up for a deal?” The talking flames \seem to wiggle with excitement.

“What sort of deal?”

“We’ve both been cursed. You’re older than you really are and I’m bound to this castle, my powers exploited to move it. How about this: you figure out the secret to breaking my curse and I’ll break yours in a flash. Not bad, eh?”

“If you say so,” Harry mumbles sleepily. He hasn’t got the slightest idea how to break a curse, but he’s really very sleepy and he wants the fire to shut up for now. 

“A deal’s a deal, even for a demon like me. But be careful with Malfoy. He’s not what you think.”

Harry doesn’t hear it as he drifts into sleep. 

 

 

Shortly after the sun rises the excitement of the city is audible and palpable. People rush to the docks to see the kingdom’s battleships pass by, colorful flags waving in the wind. The sound of cannons shooting is followed by the cheers of the crowd as they wave their own flags and shout words of encouragement to the soldiers on deck. Cerulean sky and sea seem to reflect the joy of the people, and the sun shines down merrily too. It all seems a bit optimistic for the beginnings of a war, but then again, who wants to go in believing they will lose?

 

 

 _Knock knock knock._ Harry snores on. _Knock knock knock._

The pounding at the door continues for a minute before Harry wakes up. Moments later, he hears footsteps on the rickety staircase in the corner, so he leans back in the chair and pretends to be asleep.

The footsteps pause somewhere near Harry. “Who’s this?” a high, slightly feeble voice asks.

“Porthaven!” the fire calls out.

The footsteps head towards the door and the voice calls out, “stand by.” The door opens creakily. “Hello, Mr. Mayor!”

“Is your master home?”

“Dobby is afraid Master is out, sir. What can Dobby do for you?”

“Give him this letter from the king. It has come to war. His Majesty desires every witch, wizard, and magical being in the kingdom to aid our homeland. His immediate presence at the palace is required.”

“Dobby will relay this message. Good day, Mr. Mayor.” With that the door closes.

The footsteps start again and stop close to his chair. Harry finally opens his eyes. An elf wearing a dirty pillowcase gazes up at him with his large green eyes. They stare at each other for a few seconds before the elf asks, “Excuse Dobby, sir, but who are you?”

Harry pauses for a second before replying, “He let me in,” jabbing his gnarled finger at the fire.

“Don’t look at me,” the fire says, waving its small arms. “This guy wandered in from the Wastes.”

“The Wastes?” Dobby gasps. “Is sir a wizard?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! A wizard couldn’t get in!” the fire snaps.

“Still, Calcifer did not ask Master for permission,” Dobby says tentatively while looking at the fire reproachfully.

The doorbell rings. “Porthaven again,” Calcifer the fire cries.

Dobby runs to the door and opens it. A young girl stands waiting. “Who sent miss?” the elf asks.

“My mother sent me to get the usual spell,” she replies. While Dobby ushers her in and looks for the spell, she stares at Harry, and he looks away to feel slightly less awkward. Sunlight streaming through the window catches his attention, and he hobbles over to see what lies on the other side of the glass. A view of nearby rooftops and the sea greets him, and he blinks in surprise. _It’s not the Wastes,_ he thinks.

“Grandpa, are you a wizard too?” The girl’s voice catches him off guard and Harry turns to look at her.

“Erm, that’s right, and I’m one of the scariest wizards in the land!” Harry bares his teeth for fun and the girl giggles.

“Miss should sprinkle this powder on your ship and the winds will favor it,” Dobby says to the girl, handing her a small pouch. “Miss’s patronage is much appreciated.”

The girl leaves and Dobby turns to say something to Harry, but someone begins knocking on the door again. “Kingsbury!” Calcifer calls out and Dobby runs back to the door.

A palace official stands on the other side. Harry had only ever seen them at important parades and town events. “Is your master home?”

“Dobby is afraid Master is out, sir. What can Dobby do for you?”

“Give him this letter from the king. It has come to war. His Majesty desires every witch, wizard, and magical being in the kingdom to aid our homeland. His immediate presence at the palace is required.”

“Dobby will relay this message. Good day, Mr. Mayor.” With that the door closes. Harry didn’t have much time to peer out and see the street, but the pavement seemed to be made of different stones than it had been before. Curiosity strikes him and Harry heads down the steps towards the door.

“Dobby thinks sir should not touch--”

Harry ignores the elf and opens the door. Gone is the seaside view and rooftops from before. Instead the sight of grand, colorful city buildings stands in front of him and expensive carriages with rich inhabitants roll past him on the street. In the distance he sees the nation’s flags waving from the tops of the tallest stone buildings visible. Could that be the palace?

He steps back inside and closes the door. He notices the dial surrounding the doorknob and sees that the colored square is red. He tries turning it another way, and with a click the color changes to green. After opening the door again he sees the worn cobblestones and the glimpse of the sea from before. A magic house. How fascinating! The blue square opens up to the foggy, damp air and the stiff grass of the Wastes. Harry makes to turn the doorknob to the remaining black square, but Dobby’s shrill voice interrupts him.

“Sir shall not play with the door any longer!”

Harry turns to look at the elf, fingers still gripping the doorknob, but the elf’s change in manner from timid to determined convinces Harry to give it a rest. He walks back up the stairs reluctantly.

“Sir is welcome to share breakfast with Dobby,” the elf says. He seems to have unearthed a loaf of stale-looking bread and a hunk of cheese from the horrific mess of the counter and pushes aside a few stacks of papers and objects to make a small space for eating. Harry wanders over to the counter and sees a covered plate of bacon and a basket of eggs. His stomach growls in approval.

“Why can’t you eat this other food?”

“Dobby is not to use the fire when Master is away,” the elf replies.

“I’ll cook,” Harry says, grabbing the bacon and eggs and reaching for one of the pans hanging on the wall.

“Sir cannot! Calcifer will only obey Master,” Dobby protests.

Harry doesn’t think much of rules in a place that barely resembles a house and whose master isn’t even home. He heads towards the flames and throws another log of wood into the fire.

“Be a good fire, Calcifer,” Harry says.

“No way! I’m a demon! I answer to no one!” Calcifer crosses his arms and sticks his tongue out in protest.

“Hurry up and be nice before I pour water on you,” Harry says. In a whisper, he adds, “Or would you rather I tell Malfoy about our bargain?”

The flames sputter. “I should have never let you in!”

Harry takes this as his opportunity and shoves the pan onto the fire. Calcifer tries to push it away by rising the flames several feet, but Harry pushes back harder. After a few seconds’ struggle, Harry wins and the flames turn blue around the now stable pan. Making breakfast for the Dursleys for years has been somewhat useful, and Harry starts adding bacon and eggs to the pan.

“Have you got a kettle?” Harry asks Dobby. “I’d fancy some tea.”

“R-right away, sir,” Dobby says, and his footsteps fade slightly as he goes to the messy table.

The door clicks and creaks open, and slower, heavier footsteps than Dobby’s head up the stairs. Harry glances over and tries to keep his mouth from falling open. It’s the same blond wizard that saved him from Dudley’s gang, complete with the same jacket and all. So it was Malfoy that day. Harry turns back to his cooking, willing himself to believe the queasiness in his stomach is from not eating enough.

Malfoy walks up next to Harry and stops, gazing at the flames. “Calcifer, you’re being so obedient.”

“He bullied me!” Calcifer’s eyes glare up at Harry even from under the frying pan.

“That’s not an easy thing to do,” Malfoy chuckles. He turns to look at Harry. “So who are you exactly?”

Harry makes the mistake of looking into the wizard’s gray eyes, almost silver in the firelight, and his thoughts seem to slow down. “I’m-- I’m Harry. Harry Potter. Calcifer let me in to, er-- to do the cleaning.” He waves a hand around somewhat unhelpfully. “No offense, but it’s a mess.”

Malfoy tilts his head back and laughs out loud, and it’s so different from his speaking voice. When he talks, his voice is cool and smooth like a flowing river, but when he laughs the sound is harsher yet warmer, perhaps because it feels more real. “You’re not wrong,” he says, still smiling. “Now, allow me.” He pushes Harry aside and takes the pan from him, his fingers momentarily brushing against Harry’s. “Hand me two more slices of bacon and five more eggs.”

It takes Harry several seconds to process this, only obeying when Malfoy shoves the pan near his face expectantly. Harry stands motionlessly watching Malfoy as he cooks. Even when doing something as simple as cracking eggs, there’s something elegant and refined about the wizard’s gestures, as if he were trained to move like a dancer. Calcifer’s loud munching as he eats the eggshells doesn’t faze Harry. Only when the food’s done and Malfoy walks to the table does Harry snap out of his trance-like state.

“Mr. Harry, please join us,” Dobby says with a bow. He seems to have gained respect for Harry after his victory over Calcifer.

“A real breakfast,” Malfoy muses as they sit down. “Now that I think about it, it’s been a while since we’ve had one of those.

Harry looks around the table and doesn’t see any utensils, but before he can ask, Malfoy grabs three nearby quills and with a wave of his fingers turns them into forks. He hands one to Harry, who again can’t help but delay his response by a second or two from sheer awe. They eat happily for a few minutes until Malfoy breaks the silence.

“So Harry, what’s that you’ve got in your pocket?”

“What?” Harry says stupidly. He reaches inside his pocket, and to his surprise, finds a red paper note. “I have no idea what this is,” he admits.

“I’ll take it,” Malfoy says, stretching his hand across the table. As soon as his fingers touch the note from Harry, the paper explodes and smoke and sparks fly.

“Master, the table!” Dobby gasps.

A small design about the size of a man’s palm has been etched onto the table. It seems to feature a man and the rising or setting sun as well as other parts that Harry doesn’t understand. Malfoy stares at intensely, his eyes glowing as he concentrates.

“‘You who swallowed a falling star, o heartless man, your heart shall soon be mine.’” Malfoy pauses. “This is ancient sorcery,” he breathes. “And powerful too. That can’t be good for the table.”

“Master, could it be the Witch of the Waste?” Dobby whispers.

Malfoy doesn’t answer. He stretches his palm out over the mark on the table, and after a few seconds his hair starts to float away from his face. Sparks fly from his hand, and a few seconds later, the design vanishes.

“Master has done well!” Dobby exclaims.

“The mark is gone, but the spell is still there,” Malfoy sighs. I’ll be going upstairs.” He brings his plate to the fireplace and feeds the rest to the flames. “Calcifer, move the castle one hundred kilometers. And draw up some hot water for a bath.”

Calcifer grumbles, but his flames grow and turn pink.

At the mention of the Witch of the Waste, Harry remembers what she had said to him that night. He had dared… to touch… Draco? 

“Dobby?” Harry asks. “Is ‘Draco’ part of Malfoy’s name?”

Dobby looks taken aback at the question. “That is Master’s given name, but he does not let many call him by it. It would be best for Mr. Harry to not use it, as he has not told you himself.” The elf pauses,looking down and twisting his long fingers in his robes, and then turns back to Harry. “Excuse Dobby, sir, but could it be that sir works for the Witch of the Waste?”

“Me?” Harry says angrily. “I would never! The witch was the one who--” But as he tries to say more, his lips become sealed shut and he cannot say the words he wants to. “It was because of her that I--” No use. Calcifer was right; he could not talk about what happened.

“I hate her!” Harry shouts louder than he means to, making Dobby jump in surprise. “I’m going to get that witch if it’s the last thing I do!”


	4. Chapter 4

Harry regrets his words from earlier. He’s not one to break promises or contradict his words, though, so he reluctantly sets off to cleaning the disastrous mess of the castle. Thanks to the Dursleys he’s used to cleaning, but he’s never had to deal with the amount of filth that’s present even in one of the castle’s rooms.

Miraculously, he finds a few brooms and mops hidden in the corner (why are they there if no one ever uses them?). After a while, he cleans all the cobwebs off the ceiling, making quite a racket by banging the broom against the walls in the process. The noise couldn’t have gone unnoticed, but Harry still jumps when Malfoy speaks behind him.

“You’re actually cleaning? Why don’t you just ask Dobby to do it if you care so much? House elves are supposed to clean.”

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling rather stupid. He didn’t know much about wizards’ lives and magical creatures, as the Dursleys had always strictly forbidden the mention of such topics. “Well, I said I’d clean. If Dobby can clean, why is this place so messy?”

Malfoy huffs. “I don’t want him to accidentally ruin my things, and after-- well, I just never get around to cleaning myself.” He looks at Harry for a second. “Why are you using muggle cleaning things? Wouldn’t using magic be easier?”

Harry rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. “I suppose it would be if I could actually use magic. I’m not a wizard.”

“Ah yes, and I’m a hippogriff. Why do you keep lying? You must be a wizard. I could sense your magic as soon as you entered my wards; you broke them, actually. A muggle couldn’t do that.”

“A what? I’m not lying! I’ve never done magic in my life!” Harry frowns. Shouldn’t he have known if he were special, despite the Dursleys’ insistence that he was the opposite?

Malfoy purses his lips. “Did you grow up with muggles?”

“ _What_ is a muggle?”

“People that can’t do magic. I suppose you just answered my question.” Malfoy walks over until he’s next to Harry. “Magic’s really not very hard, at least the basics, so it shouldn’t take you too much time. We’ll get this place clean in no time.”

Harry stares at Malfoy, his heart beating. Would he really get to learn magic, or was this some sort of cruel joke? “Why are you helping me?”

“Because,” Malfoy sighs exasperatedly, “it’s such a waste to have someone staying in my castle who seems to have a great deal of power and doesn’t even know how to use it. Now hurry up and follow along, I haven’t got all day.”

“Do I… do I need a… a wand or anything?” Harry internally winces at himself.

“Most people do, but let’s see if you can do anything without one for the time being. I can’t just get you one right now. Now try moving your hand like this,” he demonstrates, “and think of what you want to be clean, and say _Scourgify._ ”

Harry thinks of cleaning the corner he’s facing and moves his hand like Malfoy did. He opens his mouth to say the magic word, but before he can speak there’s a whooshing sensation under his fingers, a small streak of blue light and the corner is suddenly sparkling clean.

“Fast learner, aren’t you,” Malfoy says, but Harry’s too busy staring at his fingertips to respond. He did it. He did magic. Had he really always been a wizard?

Malfoy disappears silently while Harry cleans the rest of the main floor with waves of his fingertips. For once, he actually finds cleaning fun. The cobwebs and grime give way to handsome wood floors and pale walls, and cleaning the windows allows sunlight to stream through the glass.

“Harry, help! I’m going out!” Calcifer cries out feebly. Harry looks over and sees that the fire demon is balancing precariously on a thin log of wood.

“Hang on,” Harry says, placing the flaming wood over a small pail that will catch the ashes. “I’ve got to clean the ashes.” It takes him a few tries to clear all of them since there’s so much piled up, and just as he finishes he hears a small _clunk_ and a yelp as the piece of wood breaks and Calcifer falls into the pail. Before Harry can do anything, Malfoy runs down the stairs in a flash and has Calcifer in his hands, coaxing the blue flames to grow and turn red again. Harry is mesmerized watching Malfoy at work, blowing air onto the fire, and he startles when Malfoy puts Calcifer and more wood back into the hearth and stares at Harry.

“If you have any intention of learning from me, I’d appreciate it if you don’t torment my fire,” Malfoy declares with a colder air than before, any notion of kindness gone, and he sets off out the castle door after turning the dial to black. Harry tries to glimpse what’s beyond the door, but all he can see is vast blackness before Malfoy disappears and the door slams shut.

 

 

While cleaning upstairs, Harry finds a door that leads to a small balcony. He doesn’t know where Calcifer is taking the castle now, but it’s somewhere he’s only seen in postcards and paintings: snow-capped mountains that rise above the clouds in the pure azure sky; a flower-filled meadow so vibrant it belongs in a fairytale; and a beautiful, clear lake with a surface sparkling like diamond dust had been scattered over the water. Everything in his sight is so pristine it looks like man hasn’t been here and corrupted it yet. They seem to be high enough in the mountains that it could be possible no one had managed to reach this place. A thrill runs through Harry when he thinks about it; a few days ago he had never set foot outside his hometown, and now he’s in a magic castle in a place where few people have been before!

“That’s Star Lake,” Dobby’s high-pitched elfin voice interrupts Harry’s thoughts. “Dobby must hang the laundry, so we’ll be stopping soon. Dobby very much likes it when he has a chance to eat lunch by the lake!”

“I think I’ll quite like it too,” Harry replies.

They’re about to go back into the castle when Harry turns around at the sound of a rattling noise. He sees a stick poking out of the castle’s mechanisms near the balcony edge and tugs in several directions. Finally, the stick becomes free and Harry hoists up what turns out to be--

“A scarecrow!” Dobby cries, green eyes wide with surprise.

“This one’s named Turnip-head,” Harry grins, feeling a bit of deja-vu. “Why do you seem to have a knack for getting yourself stuck upside down?”

Turnip-head’s response is similar to how it was before; that static grin faces Harry while Turnip-head bounces up and down a few times before heading to the ground.

Harry and Dobby follow Turnip-head with a basket of wet laundry, a table, and sandwiches. Harry has fun figuring out how to levitate the items and control them with simple movements of his fingers, almost knocking all the sandwiches to the ground in the process. Within a few minutes, all of the laundry hangs from clotheslines and flaps in the gentle wind. Turnip-head had even taken it upon himself to hold onto one of the ends of a clothesline.

“Harry sir knows this scarecrow from before?” Dobby asks while digging into a sandwich.

“He’s the one who led me to the castle in the first place,” Harry says. “I guess he’s taken a liking to me.”

“How could sir think that he wasn’t a wizard? Sir has magical beings, even demons following him!”

“Do you think the scarecrow is a demon?” Harry questions between mouthfuls of food.

“Calcifer doesn’t seem to mind him.”.

“Not all demons are bad, are they?” Harry asks. “Turnip-head’s been nothing but good to me since I’ve met him.”

Harry turns back to look at the sparkling water of the lake and becomes mesmerized after a few moments. One nice thing about getting old, he thinks, is that you appreciate everything a lot more because you know it won’t last long. It hasn’t even been 48 hours since his life was normal and _boring_. Of course, living with an infamous wizard in a castle that doesn’t stay put may not exactly be an ideal life either, but for now, Harry will take it as it comes. There’s not much else he can do anyways.

 

 

Everything is silent at first, apart from the wind rushing past his ears as he spreads his dark feathery wings and flies among the black clouds. He can see the patches of bright orange down below from the fires blazing and killing who knows how many. Then the whistling starts: a high-pitched shrill scream of missiles dropping from battle aircraft, not unlike the screams they would cause when they hit the ground (if the victims had any time to scream at all). A line of bombs burst in the distance, creating a wall of fire that makes him swerve even though he’s far away.

Then the buzzing. The creatures are after him. He doesn’t look at their ugly, fat bodies, their leathery wings, or their uncomfortably sharp teeth. He knows they’re getting closer, and he doesn’t have much time. He sharply turns upward and creates a hole in the black clouds that gives way to blue sky, and then he disappears through it. They can’t catch him. For now.

 

 

 _Click_. The door opens and closes shut. Weary footsteps thud as he fights his way up the stairs, and then Draco sinks into the chair in front of the fire with a heavy sigh.

“You stink,” Calcifer says. “Of burnt flesh and steel.”

“The whole country’s on fire,” Draco scoffs. “From the southern coast to the northern border. I was even attacked by my own kind today.”

“Parkinson?”

“No, I don’t know them. Just some wizards masquerading as monsters for the other side.” Draco cracks his neck and winces at the pain.

“They’ll be crying when they can’t change back into humans anymore. You need to be careful too, you know.”

All of Draco’s muscles become tense as he screws up his face and concentrates. After a few moments and extra deep breaths, his body shudders. His feathered wings become arms and one of his extravagant jackets, and his clawed feet become human and enclosed by leather shoes again.

“Keep flying and one day you won’t be able to change back. Speaking of fighting wizards, aren’t you supposed to report to the king? As Pendragon and Black?”

“Get me hot water for my bath,” Draco says, barely able to stand up by himself.

He makes his way to the towel closet and opens it, not expecting to find a young boy no more than seventeen sleeping there. His hair is dark and messy, and his glasses lie off to the side. The same glasses that Harry the old man was wearing.

“Oh, look what she did to you,” Draco whispers, running a hand over Harry’s forehead. Harry doesn’t stir.


	5. Chapter 5

Magic is rather brilliant, Harry thinks. He had never given it much thought when he had little to no contact with it during his life at the Dursleys', but now after a few days of practicing using it himself and _feeling_ it under his fingertips, well. There wasn't really a good way to describe it, and using the word "magical" would be a bit cheesy. Dobby constantly showered Harry with praises ("Harry sir is a great wizard!" and "Dobby has rarely seen such magical prowess! Sir is magnificent!") but since the elf had seemed to taken a liking to him, Harry wasn't sure these words were totally trustworthy. Maybe Dobby was just like this because they lived together.

Malfoy was often there when Harry practiced and tried new things, perhaps more than Harry had realized since he was trying to concentrate on magic. Harry wondered if Malfoy really had nothing else to do, since Malfoy's tone of voice was somewhat bored. He'd point out how Harry could make his spells more powerful by moving his hands in a certain way and would suggest new things to try. He didn't praise Harry the way Dobby did, and a few times Harry caught him narrowing his eyes after Harry executed a spell. Harry would then ask if he did something wrong, and Malfoy would curtly say no, it was fine. Just fine.

"Should I, er, be going to wizarding school or something?" Harry asked Malfoy one day.

"No need," Malfoy replied swiftly. "You've surpassed most of the basics, so you're ready to enter an apprenticeship with a qualified wizard. And I am well qualified, if I say so myself. Don't you dare say you'd rather work with someone else," he warned, pointing a slim finger at Harry. “You were lucky that you were able to barge into my castle. Anyone else would have to beg to be able to learn from me.”

"No, that's not, er, a problem. I was just, er, wondering, is all," Harry stammered.

"Good. Then we'll move onto other things."

Harry had started to learn potions, which he wasn't as good at as spells. "Just read the directions carefully," Malfoy said simply as he laid out an old book in front of him. Harry grumbled quietly about not being able to read the small print of the text with his old eyes and not knowing which ingredients were which.

“Why do I even have to learn this,” he mumbled, not really meaning for Malfoy to hear. “I’m an old man now. I’m going to die in a few years anyways. What’s the bloody point of learning how to make a potion?”

“Well, _old man_ , you won’t be stuck in that curse for too long,” Malfoy snapped rather angrily. “And once you get your life back, you can’t be a proper wizard without knowing how to brew potions. Just because you’re more than exemplary at other branches of magic doesn’t mean you can skive off when it comes to this one!”

Harry gawked at him in awe and annoyance. Had Malfoy really gotten that ticked off from his stupid comment? Was Malfoy really going to get rid of his curse? Did Malfoy really care about his well-being as a wizard?

Instead he said, “I’m _more than exemplary_ at magic?”

Malfoy blushed, and it wasn’t hard to tell that he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Well, in all honesty, one isn’t supposed to learn as much magic as you did in the past week, even with a fabulous teacher like me. It’s supposed to take years. Wandless magic is difficult for most adults; for beginners it’s unheard of. Your progress is, well, rather extraordinary.”

“And you kept that from me? I thought I was rubbish half the time!”

“Didn’t want your head to get too big,” Malfoy said with a smirk, but there were still traces of pink on his cheeks. He looked rather dashing, and Harry cursed himself for allowing that thought to form. He was an old man; was he supposed to think anyone looked handsome anymore?

 

 

When Harry is about to go to bed, Calcifer’s tinny voice rings out. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

Harry stops and turns. “What?”

Calcifer shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me, since I am a demon, but Malfoy’s been a bit too nice around you, especially letting you stay here. He’s just not that generous.”

Harry just stares at the fire, wondering what it means.

“He’s doing it for a reason. You think people call him infamous for fun?”  
  
Harry tries not dwell on this as he lies down in his bed. He’d rather think of the time he was floating over the city like a cloud with a cool hand holding his and leading the way.

 

 

“AAGH!”

The sudden shout makes Harry jump, and Dobby mutters, “Oh dear,” as Malfoy nearly tumbles down the stairs, entirely unlike his normally poised self.

“ _POTTER, WHAT_ have you _DONE_ to my _HAIR_?”

“W-what?” Harry sputters as Malfoy, dripping wet and only dressed in a towel, bends down to Harry’s height and shoves his head in Harry’s face. The hair in question is no longer silvery blond but a bright orange.

“I haven’t--”

“Oh yes you HAVE! You mixed up all my potions when you cleaned the bathroom and NOW I look like a bloody _WEASLEY!_ THIS is why I don’t like anyone else touching my stuff!”

“A Weasley? What’s that?” Harry asks weakly as Malfoy sinks into the chair before the fire with his face in his hands.

“I can’t believe this,” he whispers to himself, completely ignoring Harry and Dobby.. “I can’t not be beautiful.” His long fingers grasp his hair and pull in despair, and as he bends closer to the floor, his hair turns from orange to bluish black.

“Hey, it’s not so bad now,” Harry tries to say reassuringly. “I rather like this shade.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond. He continues to stare at the floor with his eyes wide, his hands still pulling at his hair. A cold chill descends the room, and Harry shivers, looking around. The walls and windows have begun to shake, the glass rattling and the wooden panels bending in ways that should make them break. An eerie howling sound starts and grows louder with every breath that Malfoy takes; Harry sees the wizard’s shoulders heaving after every exhale.

“What’s going on?” Harry shouts to Dobby over the noise.

“Master is calling Dark spirits,” Dobby replies, his voice quavering. "He did it before when Mrs. Mal-- when he got dumped.”

Harry steps forward tentatively. “Draco?” he asks, feeling strange for saying the man’s given name. No response. He places a hand on the wizard’s back and pulls it back immediately, grimacing. A thick layer of slime exudes from Malfoy’s skin and coats Harry’s hand from where he had touched Malfoy. Looking around once more at the dark shadows flitting around on the bending walls, Harry no longer felt scared or nervous. His temper burst within a few seconds.

“Malfoy, this is ridiculous! You’re having a tantrum over your _hair color?_ Well, guess what? I’ve never once been attractive or special in my _life!_ GROW UP!”

Harry storms out of the castle, barely remembering to turn the dial to the Wastes beforehand. He doesn’t want to see anyone.

The sky seems to be lamenting with Harry; it’s pouring rain outside and Harry’s soaked within seconds. He doesn’t even care. He just stares at the misty horizon in front of him, fuming silently for a moment before letting out a long yell. It helps immensely, and he plops on the ground as an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion descends on his body. He’s so _tired_. He had spent his whole life before being told he was below average and unwanted, and when his life finally became interesting, he was still reminded that he had no enviable qualities. Sure, there was this magic thing, but he couldn’t do much with it yet, and there was still the fact that he was a teenager stuck in an old man’s body and there didn’t seem to be a quick way out of it. He could die like this, old and mostly alone.

It took him a few seconds to notice that rain wasn’t falling on him anymore. Harry looked up and saw Turnip-head standing above him with an umbrella.

“At least you’re here for me,” Harry tells the scarecrow with a bitter smile.

 

 

Harry treks back to the castle after his anger wears off. When he reenters, he thinks of many hair dryers blowing on him and within a few seconds his clothes are dry and warm. It’s only been a week or so and Harry has found himself using magic more often than he thought he would.

Malfoy seems to have calmed down, for the walls are no longer bending impossibly and the spirits he called are not visible or audible anymore. The wizard still sits slumped over by the fire covered in slime. Harry waves his hand and it vanishes, although Malfoy’s skin still looks shiny.

“Nothing gets rid of a tantrum like a nice hot bath,” Harry mutters as he throws an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders and manages to get him to stand up. “Up you go now.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond. His eyes are wide open, but his body responds like he’s unconscious. His breathing is slow and deep, as if he’s asleep, and Harry becomes more and more aware how he’s entirely supporting Malfoy’s weight. Malfoy’s skin feels warm on his, and Harry has to take a deep breath to push away distracting images like the outlines of Malfoy’s collarbones and shoulder blades. Deciding that Malfoy cannot walk himself up the stairs, Harry drags the wizard up to the next story and makes sure he looks straight forward when he hears the soft crumple of Malfoy’s towel to the floor.

Malfoy wakes up when he gets in the hot bathtub and tiredly curses Harry when he remembers his hair dilemma. Harry scoffs at him when he moans that it’ll take weeks for him to correct the color with potions. He leaves Dobby with Malfoy to make sure the wizard doesn’t drown himself out of melancholy, but goes back to Malfoy’s room in an hour.

Malfoy’s room was by far the most extraordinary room in the castle. It had been the one room Harry hadn’t touched for cleaning, and it was probably good that he hadn’t entered before. The walls were covered with exotic objects that Harry had mostly never seen before. There were so many things that the walls themselves were not at all visible. Harry could recognize a few objects, like peacock feathers and crowns and some jewels, but the others seemed to be rare and expensive. They were colorful and shiny, sparkling in and reflecting the soft light from the candles floating in the air. Several mobiles, also hung with decorative objects, spun slowly and gave off a quiet humming noise that seemed to shimmer. Malfoy had built himself an expensive museum that could double as a playground, and Harry could see how much of an easily fascinated child the boy still was.

Harry offered Malfoy a glass. “Drink some warm milk. It’ll do you good.”

Malfoy shakes his head wearily.

Harry sighs, setting it down on the bedside table. “Just drink it. Don’t be so stubborn.” He makes his way to the door and reaches for the handle.

“Don’t leave me, Harry.”

Harry halts abruptly. Malfoy had said his name, and in such a pleading way. He actually sounded genuine, which made Harry’s breath unsteady for a moment. This was a new side of the wizard. Harry slowly turns around and goes back to sit by Malfoy’s bedside, waiting for him to talk.

Malfoy sighs, and Harry ignores how regal he looks in his silver bed amongst many pillows, his long hair fanned out around his head like waves. “The Witch of the Waste is searching for my castle.”

Harry remembers her comment in the hat shop about “touching Draco” and isn’t that surprised, although that doesn’t prevent the lurch in his stomach.

“All of this sorcery is just to keep her away,” Malfoy continues.

Harry hesitates, not sure if he should jump in. “Why is she after you?”  
  
Malfoy laughs bitterly and sighs again. “When we were younger, I approached her because I was bored. The Parkinsons are a well-known family, anyways. We got along at first, but she changed and became difficult and vile. Tiring to deal with.”

Harry thinks, and then opens his mouth to tell Malfoy that running away doesn’t solve much. But Malfoy continues talking.

“And now the king has ordered me to report to him. As Pendragon and Black.”

“Just how many names do you use?” Harry asks.

“As many as I need to guarantee my freedom,” Malfoy says with a weak grin.

“Well,” Harry says. “Do you have to go to the king?”

“I took an oath at the Sorcerer’s Academy,” Malfoy sighs. “I have to report to the king when ordered.”

“Then why don’t you just go to him and tell him what you think?” Harry says.

“What?!” Malfoy cries, sitting up in indignation.

“Say it to his face. Tell him that you think this war is rubbish and that you won’t help him in it!”

Malfoy sighs, and Harry wonders if slapping Malfoy once will stop him from sighing one more time. “You don’t know what they’re like at the palace.”

“Shouldn’t the king care about what his people think? You’re one of his beloved citizens, aren’t you?”

“I KNOW!” Malfoy shouts, leaning quite close to Harry and pointing a finger in his face. “You’ll go for me, Harry!”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be indignant. “What?!”

“Since you’re, you know,” Malfoy says excitedly, gesturing at nothing. “Old, you know, you can pretend to be my father! Say your son Pendragon is lazy and good for nothing!” He looks so excited that Harry almost feels that way too. “Maybe even Madame Sulliman will give up on me!”

“Why should I let you be even more of a coward than you already are?” Harry protests.

A dangerous glint becomes visible in Malfoy’s eyes. “If you don’t go,” Malfoy says steelily. “I’ll kick you out. And I still won’t go to the palace. Only you will be losing.”

Harry stiffens. “Do you mean that?” he says quietly, feeling too disappointed to feel angry.

Malfoy falters ever so slightly seeing Harry’s change in manner. “Yes,” he says rather quickly, which Harry takes as his attempt to stay consistent. Cowards probably don’t want to go back on their words, even if they think those words are wrong. “So you’d better go. Tomorrow then?”

Harry sighs. It’s not like he has much else to do anyways.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit hello it has literally been over a year since I last updated this. I hadn't really forgotten about it but I had stopped last year because I lost confidence in my writing and wasn't sure if I could do this fic the justice I imagined in my head. but now I have decided that I will try anyways, if only for a sense of completion and to do something for myself. I know this isn't the best writing but I'm writing whatever feels right to me even when the syntax is probably awful. anyways i'm sorry for taking so long to add to this and i'm really going to try to finish it soon! also I will be going back and editing some parts of previous chapters too. thanks if you're here :')

Harry has put on his hat and is halfway down the stairs to go out and head towards the king’s palace when the thud of frantic footsteps and a shouted “Wait!” make him turn around. Malfoy stands panting at the top of the stairs to the door, his disheveled pajamas hanging off of him so that a fair amount of his chest is exposed. 

“You can’t go today,” Malfoy says after a few deep breaths. 

“What? You told me--”

“I didn’t think clearly enough. You haven’t learned enough magic yet.”

Harry frowns in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Malfoy shakes his head as if Harry had missed something quite obvious. “You’re going to the palace as my father, and you expect knowing some cleaning spells will cut it? You have to learn _something_ else.”

“Like what? And won’t the king want me to fight for him if he knows I’m a wizard?”

Malfoy sighs. “Do you really think they’d want someone as old as you -- or at least as old as you look -- to participate in a battle? They’re not that cruel. And even if they are that desperate, you can say your powers have been greatly diminished after a spell gone wrong in a duel.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t worry about trying to be as good as a wizard as me. As fast of a learner as you are, you won’t be able to catch up so soon. Just say that your son Pendragon is brilliant and more talented than you ever were.”

“But he’s still too lazy to come to the palace himself.”

“Right.” Malfoy looks fairly excited for someone talking about his own cowardice.

“So what magic am I learning?” Harry asks.

“Well, one thing’s not really magic in that it’s not spell casting, but it involves magic and you should learn it. You need to learn to ride a broom. You also should learn to Apparate, as that’s a lot faster, but it’s trickier and you won’t be able to Apparate into the palace grounds anyhow, so we’ll save that for later.”

Harry thinks of old Halloween cards with green-faced witches floating on brooms and snorts.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Harry says while smiling. “So brooms? Why not that…” And then he remembers that Malfoy doesn’t know that Harry is the boy he saved and held hands with in the sky, drifting along like clouds, and he doesn’t know if he should reveal that now.

“What?” Malfoy sounds a bit impatient.

“I mean… is there another way of flying besides brooms?” Harry tries.

Malfoy purses his lips. “Just learn the broom first, Potter.”

 

 

They’re back near Star Lake, and it would be a lovely day if not for Harry feeling very stupid standing in a meadow with a broom lying down in front of him. It’s magic, yes, but how is a cleaning tool supposed to support him in the air and take him somewhere, especially when he’s stuck in an old man’s stocky body?

“Watch first,” Malfoy commands. “There’s less of a chance of you breaking your neck that way.” He raises a hand to his side and the broom flies upwards into his palm. He’s very fast, or maybe Harry’s just distracted by the billowing cape-jacket that Malfoy never seems to take off, and within seconds he’s flying. The gentle floating movements that characterized his walking in the sky are quite a contrast to now, where Malfoy leans closer to the broom handle so he can fly faster and higher until it seems like he’s circling the lower clouds and Harry can barely spot the speck of green fabric and the hair that’s still blue-black. 

After some time -- Harry’s not sure how long -- Malfoy flies back down until he’s a few meters above in the air, and Harry’s surprised by how different he looks. Obviously his hair is rumpled and his cheeks are flushed because of the wind, but Malfoy looks happier than Harry’s ever seen him -- maybe this is the first time Harry’s ever seen him genuinely happy at all. Bright eyes, an unintentional smile, and a sense of comfort and relaxation instead of stiff shoulders and too-pointy boots that Harry normally sees; Malfoy looks free and young, maybe as young as Harry if he weren’t trapped under this stupid curse. It makes him remember his first time in the air again, and he briefly wonders if Malfoy will tease him for staring again. It’s really not fair though, because Malfoy is even more beautiful than normal like this.

“Well? Is staying on the ground that much more entertaining, or are you going to give it a try?” Even this typical jibe is less guarded. There’s no attempt at real malice, and the laugh is barely concealed.

Harry raises his hand to his side too, and the broom flies into his hand. He steps over it, feeling strange for straddling a broom the same way that non-wizards -- Muggles, right? -- depict witches doing.

“Kick off the ground!” Malfoy yells. “Even you can’t levitate yourself with sheer willpower.”

So Harry kicks off and flies. It feels too easy, like he’s doing something wrong; all he does is grip the handle with his hands, knees pressed tightly together, and lean where he wants to go. He doesn’t know how fast he’s going, but the wind beating his body doesn’t even feel cold because flying feels so good. There’s no Dursleys and no old bones holding him back when there’s this much exhilaration in his body, when it seems like the air a few meters above the ground injects him with adrenaline. Harry wonders if he’s wearing a smile like the one Malfoy had.

Then there’s a glint of green to his side, and Harry looks over to see Malfoy flying beside him but staring back at Harry with a different smile and a look that Harry doesn’t know how to interpret. Suddenly Malfoy speeds ahead and Harry leans forward to catch up with him. 

They race until the sun nearly sets. When they land and Harry collapses on the ground still laughing because of sheer excitement, he doesn’t notice how his body is heavier again and much more tired than it was when he was flying. He closes his eyes and breathes in the cold, crisp air and the smell of sweet grass. Just remember this, he tells himself. Remember this freedom, this escape from the regular world.

He misses how Malfoy’s looking at him again with eyes that seem to hold sadness.

 

 

Dobby’s cooking tastes much better tonight for whatever reason, and Harry actually regrets having to slow down his eating in order to answer Dobby’s questions about the day.

“Did Master Harry do as well in flying as he does in everything else?”

Harry almost chokes on his food. “Er, well I didn’t fall down…”

“Such a natural! Harry Potter is just like his--”

“He flies too well for someone who supposedly has only used brooms for cleaning,” Malfoy interrupts. “I wouldn’t trust him with even a Cleansweep. He could well just fly away and not bring it back.”

“What do you mean ‘just like my--’”

“Your broom,” Malfoy says, “or rather, the broom you used, is an old model that’s not even made anymore and that I had to make adjustments to make it worthy of use. Of course brooms are getting better these days, like the Nimbus series and the Fire--” Malfoy doesn’t finish his sentence as he stares at something outside. Harry turns to look out the window too, and there doesn’t seem to be anything apart from some faraway lights in the darkness. Except the lights seem to be growing, as if they’re not just city lights but--

“Tonight too?” Malfoy growls. It’s a strange sound, low and angry but something else too.

“War doesn’t sleep,” Calcifer chimes in.

“It’s… it’s here now too? Not just abroad?” Harry asks.

“Can happen anywhere,” Calcifer says, crackling his flames matter-of-factly. 

“Don’t tell me,” Malfoy starts, voice strained, “that those fires are--”

“Seems to be a surprise attack,” Calcifer says, and Malfoy starts to head toward the second floor, “because there doesn’t seem to be much response from this side. Like it’s a small, peaceful town, maybe by a nice lake and some mountains--”

“Fuck,” Malfoy swears from halfway up the stairs, his hand gripping the banister so hard that his fingers shake. Maybe he isn’t just angry, but scared too.

“Do you… fight in the war?” Harry asks. Perhaps it’s the wrong question, or Malfoy just doesn’t hear him, because he stands there on the stairs frozen in place but shaking ever so slightly. 

“I... I have to go. Somewhere.” Malfoy suddenly runs back down the stairs and towards the front door. He reaches for the doorknob but turns around. “Calcifer. Wards.” And then to Harry. “Don’t do anything. If you leave, the castle could be vulnerable. And fires spread quickly.” He gives Harry a long, harsh look before turning the dial to the black space and leaps out the door. All Harry can see is more blackness swallowing Malfoy and his colorful jacket before the door slams and it’s silent again.

 

 

Harry doesn’t sleep. He hates knowing that flames are consuming people’s homes and their lives while other attacks are going on and that there’s nothing he can do about it. He hates that Malfoy wouldn’t tell him anything except to stay here. That he wouldn’t let Dobby finish what he was saying about Harry. Maybe Calcifer was right in that Malfoy wasn’t so nice as he acted sometimes.

Hours pass. It’s probably close to dawn by now. Maybe Harry will finally sleep soon instead of lying awake on his pillow.

The dial on the front door clicks, and slow, heavy footsteps follow. Harry is about to leave his cupboard bedroom when he sees through the crack of his door that it’s not Malfoy in front of the fire. A huge creature that seems to be similar to an eagle but with blue-black feathers that look oddly familiar breathes heavily and noisily, but Calcifer’s flames don’t even flicker. 

Calcifer looks unhappy. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you--”

“The graveyard wasn’t touched,” a voice says, so deep and raspy that Harry can hardly decipher what it says.

“You won’t be strong for much longer. You’re already weaker than you should be.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the voice replies, almost wheezing. “No one needs me.”

“What about that boy -- Potter --”

“He just learns from me. What else would I be to him.” The creature walks away from the fire, huge wings shedding feathers and clawed feet leaving dark, wet footprints on the stairs as it ascends.

Harry jumps out of his bed and follows, not noticing that he’s running like a sixteen-year-old again instead of a seventy-year-old. The door to Malfoy’s room is open still. The glittery objects still cover the walls, shimmering like nothing’s wrong, but vast, dark tunnels that hadn’t appeared before are here too. Harry follows the trail of dark footprints, hoping that the liquidy substance isn’t blood.

“Malfoy!” Harry calls, and his voice is not old and feeble but young and stronger and scared. “Malfoy!” The tunnel is long, dark, and seemingly empty now. “Draco!”

Harry bumps into something cold and feathery, and he raises one hand to cast a beam of light on what’s in front of him. 

“Get away from me. I’m a monster.” The voice is still harsh and raspy but slightly more human now, and the creature has shrunk to Malfoy’s original height and it’s Malfoy’s face emerging from inky feathers, Malfoy’s hand shielding what he can even though wings still sprout from his shoulders.

“Mal-- Draco,” Harry tries, reaching for that pale, shaking hand that then slaps him away.

“Don’t call me that,” Malfoy spits. “You don’t know me. Stop thinking that you’re-- that you’re in, in love with me -- because you aren’t!”

Harry is stunned into silence, because when has he been in love with Draco Malfoy?

“Just because you’re young again right now doesn’t mean I can break your curse! Don’t waste your energy on someone who’s going to die!” Malfoy’s entire body is shaking now, feathers falling and blood dripping and red eyes staring into Harry.

“You’re not going to die,” Harry whispers, and he wipes away one of the tears on Draco’s cheek before he is slapped away.

“Stop deluding yourself,” Malfoy spits, and he flies off into the dark again, leaving Harry alone with his Lumos charm and his heart in his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Harry doesn’t sleep for the rest of the few hours that remain until dawn. Of course it’s a bit strange that Malfoy had entirely transfigured himself or something into an almost-certainly not-human bird creature that was pretty terrifying at first glance, but Harry’s worried about more than that. One, Malfoy had been bleeding a lot, and there could well be other problems hidden under all those dark feathers. Harry has no idea how long Malfoy has been fighting like this and if it’s been this bad. Malfoy seems like the type to stop when he’s endangered this much, but maybe Harry doesn’t know him that well after all. Malfoy certainly didn’t want to reveal anything to him; the way he had shut Harry off was so violent and sudden, so different from the person who had challenged him to a flying race and had led him through the clouds while laughing. 

 

And then of course there’s the whole ‘you’re not in love with me’ thing. What the fuck? Harry hadn’t ever thought that about anyone before. Had he even really liked anyone before? Sure, there used to be a cute girl who worked at the bakery and would give Harry extra free samples, and there were always a few attractive sailors whenever he had to go to the port, but he had never known anyone well enough to like someone beyond shallow infatuation. He hadn’t even really thought he liked Malfoy that way. Of course Malfoy was good-looking and good at magic and had saved Harry, but Harry had never thought about anything further. How, then, could Malfoy yell that Harry thought he was in love with Malfoy and that he was wrong?

 

Just because you’re young again, Malfoy had said. Harry hadn’t even remembered immediately, but yes, he hadn’t been talking in his old man’s voice, and he had run up the stairs rather quickly. It’s not like he saw himself then, but he had reverted back to his young self for a short time. What did that have to do with Malfoy breaking his curse and…?

 

Someone who’s going to die. Yes, Malfoy was dramatic, but had he really been at that moment when he was dripping blood and crying? Harry didn’t think he could die that easily, but he couldn’t have meant he was going to die then, he couldn’t dive further into his dark tunnels after saying something like that--

 

Harry runs back up the stairs, cursing himself for not remembering the most important part earlier, this was all too much at once, but he reaches Malfoy’s door and apparently Malfoy doesn’t hate Harry enough to lock it, or maybe he does but didn’t do anything about it because he’s lying on the floor of his room. There’s dried blood still on the side of his head and there’s probably more hidden in his hair that’s still blue-black, but thank God he’s still breathing and Harry is still breathing rather fast because he doesn’t know if he had ever been that worried. Worried for Malfoy, someone who insulted him by the minute and had tantrums over his hair color but also someone who taught him things he didn’t need to and let Harry see his laugh, even if it was just once.

 

Maybe this is some proof then, that Harry’s at least in like with Malfoy, who sleeps on while Harry has this sort-of revelation. Harry carries him to his bed, alarmed that Malfoy feels this light even though he’s decently taller than Harry. He looks too pale and sickly against his five fluffy pillows and under the glittering lights of all his trinkets. Harry looks around at them, remembering that Malfoy had said the whole castle was basically an escape method, and now the crowded walls seem even more like a child’s collection of fancy toys gone overboard. Even on the wall opposite the bed there’s silver light dancing on the already sparkling objects.  But the silver light hadn’t been there before, had it?

 

A stone basin on the floor emits the light. Harry hadn’t seen it last time, so Malfoy must have kept it hidden. Harry goes over to it and sees the runes on the side -- he has no idea what they mean though, because Malfoy had tried to make him read about them and after five pages his head had hurt too much to go on -- as well as the silvery liquid that swirled inside the basin. Harry’s not stupid enough to just stick his fingers in it, but as he leans a little closer, soft whispering sounds become barely audible and faint images start to appear on the surface of the liquid. He squints and leans a bit closer, still not touching it. Nothing he can hear is discernable, but the image seems to focus and… is that him? Harry leans even closer without realizing it and suddenly he’s falling, falling, falling.

 

It’s himself stopping his cooking over Calcifer to say “I’m Harry, Harry Potter,” for the first time. Then it’s suddenly a change of scene to an old clipping of a newspaper with a picture of a couple: a woman with red hair and green eyes and a man with familiarly messy black hair and glasses, and Harry catches ‘Potters killed’ in the headline before the scene changes again. Now it’s a silvery blond boy, no older than seven, and a woman with the same hair collecting flowers at a meadow that looks much like the one where Harry learned to fly. Now it’s white narcissus flowers over a grave, perfectly fine, while just a block away buildings on fire emit heavy smoke into the grey-orange night sky and there’s faint screaming. Now it’s a boy with black hair and glasses being hit by some sort of spell in the same smokey street and his not-green eyes going blank while someone hidden under dark feathers screams, and then it’s the real Malfoy yanking Harry’s collar and pulling him out of this surge of memories back into his glittery room.

 

Malfoy looks almost as angry as he had last night, breathing hard and not letting Harry go. 

 

“What the fuck made you think you had the right to do that?” 

 

“I-- I didn’t mean to,” Harry stutters. “I was just trying to see what it was, and I leaned too close and I fell in--”

 

“Why are you in  _ my _ room, touching  _ my  _ things, invading  _ my _ memories--”

 

“I was worried about you,” Harry blurts. His voice trembles even though it’s still young. “You said you were going to die, so I came back because I didn’t want to find you gone. You won’t die yet, but I was still worried.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes widen, and his grip loosens enough that Harry can break free. He looks fragile again, and without thinking Harry reaches up to the trail of blood along Malfoy’s temple to clean it away. Malfoy flinches when Harry touches him there, and his eyes narrow as he pushes Harry’s hand off of him.

 

“No one told you to be worried about me, Potter. Don’t worry about things you don’t know anything about.”

  
  
  
  
  


Harry spends the day doing nothing much. He spends extra time cooking, not that he’s spectacular but because it keeps him focused on something, and he does the dishes by hand. He goes out and flies for a bit, but he finds himself thinking too much anyways, especially because he keeps seeing Malfoy flying next to him with that unguarded laugh. Not to mention that glimpse of what must have been Malfoy and his mother in maybe the same meadow he was flying over. 

 

Thinking at all -- let alone about all the memories he saw -- is too much right now. He doesn’t want to think about the newspaper clipping of his parents because he can’t find much else out without asking Malfoy about it. He doesn’t want to think about why Malfoy had known of his parents and not told him. Anything involving Malfoy is difficult to think about right now, because if he thinks about it he’ll want to go ask Malfoy and that doesn’t seem like a good idea yet. Malfoy doesn’t seem to want to leave his room. 

 

Wait. Harry can’t ask Malfoy, but there might be someone else who can give him some answers.

  
  
  
  
  


“Dobby?” 

 

Said elf appears from behind a stack of books that Malfoy had meant Harry to read and that Harry was probably not ever going to read. “What can Dobby do for Mister Harry?”

 

“Can I ask you a few things?”

 

“Yes, of course, sir.”

 

“What’s that stone thing that Malfoy has in his room? The one with swirly silver stuff… that has memories, are they?”

 

Dobby hesitates briefly before saying, “That is a Pensieve. One can keep one’s memories and thoughts in there to clear the mind and to be able to return to reflect.”

 

“So it’s just your own thoughts?”

 

“The thoughts of anyone who extracts their own and then puts them in the basin, sir.”

 

“Alright. And… did Malfoy know my parents?”

 

Dobby looks slightly worried. “Parents?”

 

“Yes, Lily and James Potter. I… I think I saw a newspaper article about them in Malfoy’s memories.”

 

“Mister… Harry Potter does not know how his parents died?” Dobby falters, and he looks like it will be difficult for him to answer.

 

“I was always told it was a train crash… Please tell me. I. I never really got to hear about them.” Apart from the Dursleys complaining that Harry was subpar because his parents had been. 

 

“I don’t know if Malfoy would want you telling all this stuff to Harry,” Calcifer says to Dobby, but it seems to be directed at Harry too.  _ Don’t be nosy. _

 

“They’re my parents!” Harry yells. He feels a sinking sensation in his chest; the guilt that he never tried to find anything else about his parents out manifests now.

 

“Dobby… Dobby wants to help Mister Harry too. Mister Harry still has much to learn about the wizarding world.”

 

Calcifer shrugs because it’s not like it affects him anyways. Dobby and Harry sit down, and Harry learns that it was most definitely not a train crash. There had been another war before, separate from the one going on now, and the Potters fought in it. They were good enough fighters that they had been part of some special guard and were known for it, but someone on the Dark side had been better or at least found some way to kill them. To murder them. 

 

Harry feels guilty again. It’s not his fault for not knowing exactly, but he really hadn’t had any idea of what kind of people his parents were. He had only known their names; before seeing the flash of the memory of the newspaper, he hadn’t even known what they looked like. They had made great sacrifices, and here Harry is, a boy who made hats for a number of years and still doesn’t really do anything now even though he’s staying in a wizard’s castle.

 

He almost wants to ask about Malfoy’s mother, Malfoy’s parents really, but he doesn’t think he can handle any more information for the day. Or if he could handle it if Malfoy found out that he knew.

  
  
  
  
  


“Why are you being so mopey?” Calcifer asks. Harry’s caught off-guard; it’s not common for Calcifer to ask a question instead of making a snarky comment.

 

“Mopey?”

 

“Yeah, you know, you keep sighing and you’re not doing anything. People sigh more when they’re in love. Did Malfoy tell you that you’re in love with him?”

 

Harry sighs and then curses himself for his timing. “Why does everyone know this but me?”

 

“Because it’s obvious. You change so much in front of him.”

 

Harry thinks that’s a stupid thing to say. “Thanks for the insight.”

 

“He pushes people away, you know. Even if he likes them. Or loves them.”

 

“No kidding he pushes people away. I was wondering what he meant when he told me to fuck off,” Harry scoffs before he shuts himself in his bedroom closet. He’s sick of demons that won’t say anything straight.

  
  
  
  
  
Harry has a nightmare for the first time in a while that night. As soon as he wakes up it’s already slipping away, but the sensation of darkness and silence apart from his own screams still clings to him. Something about a dark room with doors and windows that he can’t see or reach, somewhere where he doesn’t know anything and he’s trapped. It’s just a dream, he tells himself, but it felt so real, almost as if it were a memory.

 

 

 


End file.
